... He heard the thunderous crashing roar that met her entrance.
He did not hear her line. He walked forth to the glazed balcony at
the front of the house, where in the _entr'actes_ dandies smoked
cigarettes baptized with girlish names. He could see Piccadilly
Circus, and he saw Piccadilly Circus thronged with a multitude of
loafers who were happy in the mere spectacle of Isabel Joy's name
glowing on an electric sign. He went back at last to the managerial
room. Marrier was there, hero-worshipping.
"Got the figures yet?" he asked.
Marrier beamed.
"Two hundred and sixty pounds. As long as it keeps up it means a
profit of getting on for two hundred a naight!"
"But, dash it, man, the house only holds two hundred and thirty."
"But my good sir," said Marrier, "they're paying ten shillings a piece
to stand up in the dress-circle."
Edward Henry dropped into a chair at the desk. A telegram was lying
there, addressed to himself.
"What's this?" he demanded.
"Just cam."
He opened it and read:
* * * * *
"I absolutely forbid this monstrous outrage on a work of art.--TRENT."
* * * * *
"Bit late in the day, isn't he?" said Edward Henry, showing the
telegram to Marrier.
"Besides," Marrier observed, "he'll come round when he knows what his
royalties are.
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